Reticence
by NeapolitanGirl
Summary: AU 10Rose angstridden fic with a heart. Ten and Rose's relationship has broken down, but why? Will they get back together? And is there any point when they're just going to get their hearts broken again and again? Twists in time, told almost backwards R
1. Prologue

_I'm new to this, you might have guessed. And have a Mac, which makes everything just that LITTLE bit harder. I hope this turns out okay, and the layout isn't... squiffy (yes, I know it's not a real word). Oh, well. Here goes nothing._

_Begins midway (er, more than midway, really) into the actual action. This story is SO not linear. I can't write anything linear, it's like I see what's happening as scenes and I string them together and come up with... tripe. Sorry. Wait, what was my point? Oh, right, essentially everything begins post-Age of Steel, aka post-Mickey's departure. Then things get worse. And worse. And worse... and here I am, packaging it all into angsty-sci-fi goodness. With hints of the inimitable TenRose._

_Kindly read the first chapter as well, it's much better (and about ten times as long). But it's all un-betad (also not a word) so there might be spelling, grammatical or some other kind of errors. _

_I'll shut up now._

_Don't own it, wouldn't want to (storms away in a childish huff). _

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He always thought he knew all about death. He's certainly seen a lot of it in his 900 years. It was always said that time travels fastest for the oldest, but he proves to be an exception to that rule, as he so often is with convention. The older he gets, the slower the time passes. He supposes that means he's ready to die, although it's never really felt that way until now.

As he sits in the back pew of a church, his head bowed in respect and crushing sadness and he's not quite sure what else, listening to the ghost of Rose Tyler sob uncontrollably, he wants to die.

The sound is echoing around the building, ricocheting of the walls and ceiling, bouncing back at them a hundred times, almost drowning him in her grief. There is something so monumentally, epicly, incomprehensibly, Earth-shatteringly human about this moment he feels guilty when he can feel his alien heart break.

Her body is shaking in it's thick, cream coat, hunched over, her long golden hair hiding her face, and she looks far more vulnerable than he's ever seen. There is no one next to her, the church empty but for the two of them. He's not sure if she knows he's there, but he knows that it's irrelevant, even if neither of them would see it as such. They're in the presence of something much greater here, something much more malevolent. The world has simply stopped turning for Rose Tyler, and as much as he would like to be, he cannot allow himself to be the one to start it again-it isn't his place, not now. There is no one there for her, she is entirely alone.

He picks himself up and walks from the church, not bothering to make an effort to walk quietly. She won't hear him.

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_So, um... yeah. Don't review yet. Read Chapter One. I actually quite like that. _


	2. Chapter One

_Chapter One, in which... I start to bamboozle you all. Anything that's... unexplained... will be explained. Later._

_For now, just sit back and, um, try to ignore anything that looks like a plot hole (IT'S NOT A PLOT HOLE! IT ISN'T! IGNORE THE POSSIBILITY IT MIGHT BE A PLOT HOLE!) and any spelling or grammatical errors. I have no betas. Nobody loves me, clearly. _

_And I still don't own it. I don't even know where I would buy it._

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She's so used to the hum and whir of the tardis that it seems almost funereal when it finally stops. They stand, opposite each other, for once not running or laughing, and for the hundredth time she has to blink back the tears she categorically refuses to shed.

"Home again."

"Hmmm."

"Your mum will be pleased to see you."

"Yeah."

_Stop talking about my mum. _Her knees feel shaky already, and her bag is so heavy it's cutting into her hand. She can tell he knows she's on the verge of tears, and she's both relieved and disappointed he hasn't mentioned it.

"Rose, I'm, er..." _sorry. _"I..." _I don't want you to go_.

The doctor is staring at her, conflicted. It's been like this for weeks now, skirting around each other, awkward silences, nervous, almost hysterical laughter and jokes that fall flat. But still, he's amazed that it happened this fast. He's amazed that it happened at all.

"I... I'll... be back in a few days. I've got some things to do."

She swallows and nods, even though they both know that it's more than likely he'll never be back. They both hate it more than words can say, but neither challenges it.

He's still looking at her, but she won't return his gaze, and realises that this is probably it, that she should leave. Still clutching her bag with so much force her nails are digging into her palms, she turns quietly away and walks as assertively as she can towards the door, pausing only momentarily when she hears his voice calling after her, tinged with what she might once have hoped was regret.

"Rose, you know you could have..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. She can finish it herself, and can see how false it is.

_You could have asked if you needed help._

She's stopped, a foot from the door, her head bowed and her eyes shut. When she opens them again she's so_, so _close to tears.

"Stop flattering yourself."

Then she stands up as straight as she can, attempting to leave with what's left of her dignity still intact, feeling like the weight of the world has been forced unwillingly upon her shoulders, and walks through the door, out into the car park of the estate she had so wanted to believe she had left behind forever.

She only gets about twenty metres away before she has to stop and put her bag down, she is shaking so much.

And as she hears that sound, the sound she has come to adore so much, the sound of the universe coming and going and leaving her behind, there is not a doubt in her mind she will never hear it again. She almost doubles up from the pain of it all, still mindlessly thinking _please come back, please let him come back for me. Let him realise he still wants me, let him decide he needs me, he always needed me. _

But he doesn't, and berating herself for her weakness, hating herself for still being so human after all this time when he so obviously doesn't understand, she allows herself a last few moments of hurt.

He's left her. He's actually left her behind. He's actually _able _to leave her behind. And she bloody hates him for it.

These are her last few moments of _that_ life. When she opens her eyes again it will all be true, and she'll have to become as emotionally reserved as him to block out the pain.

"Oi!"

Her heart skips a beat. She looks up, still uncomfortably bent over, for one fleeting moment hoping, praying.

"You're Jackie Tyler's daughter, ain't cha?"

There's a large, smoking woman draped over the balcony of flat 3b, all unwashed hair and gruff demeanour.

Rose is heartbroken, appalled that the last few moments she has allocated to grief are being snatched away from her my a nosy woman that knows her mum. She almost says _no, Jackie Tyler's daughter's gone now, she left, she's gone, _but she stops herself at the last minute, knowing this woman, this brash, ugly, unromantic woman with her cigarettes and tracksuit could never understand, and the truth, that _Rose Tyler_ died a long, long time ago would be totally lost on her. She feels almost violated by the woman's question, hating her for not having the common sense or decency to respect her privacy and keep her nose out of the only sacred moment Rose thinks she will ever have again.

The woman is looking at her expectantly, her cigarette protruding hideously from her pursed, yellowing lips, scrutinising Rose with the self-assurance and obviousness that only the truly intrusive can achieve. Rose looks back, words failing her. This is it, this is really it, he's not coming back. And the second she admits to being Jackie Tyler's daughter, that will be that. That chapter of her life will be closed, and she will effectively be back in square one, a shop girl on the Powell Estate with no prospects, and frankly, not all that much to live for.

It takes everything in her to answer, but somehow she does it, swallowing and grimacing in an attempted smile.

"Yup, that's me."

The woman scowls at her.

"Yeah, well tell her I won't be wanting that haircut, alright? Not after what she did to Tracy in 2g. I told her to go to a proper hairdresser, I did, but did she listen? No. And that's what she got for it."

Rose is speechless. She won't forget this moment, not as long as she lives.

_This, _Rose thinks, _is real life. This is my life._

"I'll let her know."

She's accepted it. She lifts her bag, and with an overly cheery wave to trashy Mrs 3b, she begins to walk across the car park, over the brown, faded lawn, back towards her former home, her former life. And on top of that, she has to silently live with what she's done.

Mum _will_ be pleased.

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It's more chance than anything else that brought them here, and Rose can't stand it.

A small boy wanders past with a look of pure childlike innocence and joy, and she buries her face in his shoulder, not sure she can bear another second of their silence.

"Doctor, can't we just..."

"No."

Her tears slowly leak down her nose, wetting his coat. He sits perfectly still, not allowing himself to react or comfort her for fear that he might not be able to keep quiet, that he might not be able to stick to the stupid set of rules he's made himself.

Each face wears a look of relief and gratitude that it's nearly all over, that peace is so close they can almost taste it, that life can finally go one, and that it's now possible to live, rather than just _survive_.

"Please, Doctor, _please_..."

He stands abruptly, his face impassive, and holds out his hand to help her get up from where she is awkwardly positioned on the ground. She stares at him for a moment, then with a look somewhere between confusion and fear at his reticence allows herself to be pulled up from the grass.

"How can you possibly..."

He cuts her off with one of his dangerous looks that could silence the most fervent of preachers and pulls her away, back to the one place he'll know they're safe, away from the sunshine and the laughter of people who are all, essentially, at least within the next twenty-four hours, dead.

_Hiroshima, 1945_

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She's never really understood the point of funeral parties-if someone's dead, they're dead, and no amount of mourning will bring them back. She'd be far happier to simply go home and eat a tub of ice cream (or drink a vat of whiskey, she isn't fussy), then cry herself to sleep. Sadly, that's not really an option.

"Your mum was a very good friend, you know that? Me an' Shirley, we'll miss her down the laundrette. She was one of our best customers, an' all."

Rose nods, smiling sweetly and detachedly at the stumpy little woman in front of her. It's as clear as day she barely knew Jackie, but Rose makes the decision not to call her on it. There'd be barely anyone here if Rose had a say in it. It's strange to realise after all these years on the estate that neither Jackie nor Rose really got to know the neighbours. And all this small talk is not really what she needs right now.

"Excuse me, Rose?"

Rose turns away from Sheila from the laundrette, and is momentarily surprised by the sight in front of her.

"Sarah Jane!"

She throws her arms around her, for the first time in days feeling something other than the dull ache of inevitability, guilt and grief. The older woman hugs her back, an honest, truthful hug that Rose is really rather glad for. As the bereaved party she's been the recipient of a great deal of hugs over the last few days, but none of them have actually felt as heartfelt as this one. Only Sarah Jane could possibly begin to comprehend some of what Rose is going through, even if she _would_ be appalled if she knew the whole story.

"_Death's the end of all,_" she quotes, whispering in Rose's ear. She sighs and the two break apart, Sarah Jane's face wearing a look of understanding that very few people have managed to muster up without being patronising. It's a sort of half smile of embracing the inexorable, and it makes Rose wonder what look her own sorry face must have.

"I only found out this morning, I'm sorry I didn't call. Is it alright that I'm here?"

Rose smiles sadly. "More than alright. It's probably a good thing to have someone who knows that I... knew."

Sarah Jane nods, understandingly, the unspoken _I't's not your fault_ shining from her eyes, making there no need for words. Rose has had enough consoling words to last her a lifetime, and it appears that that goes understood, at least in some special cases. If one more person asks her if she needs help, she might scream.

Sarah Jane moves a little closer to Rose, looking almost conspiratorial, unwilling to be overheard at such a dismal function. It might spoil the _memories_.

"You know, he would have come if you'd have asked him. In a second."

Rose looks back, seeing something strange in her friend's expression.

"Have you... seen him? Since you found out? Did you... Does he..." She stumbles over her words. "Did you tell him about my mum?" She's incredulous, almost outraged, but perfectly aware that it is within Sarah Jane's rights to see the Doctor. He's probably more her friend than she is. And the idea of seeing him again makes her feel physically nauseous. Still, she can't help feeling jealous. Of who, she's not quite sure.

"I haven't seen him since you came round last week, he doesn't know."

Rose grimaces, remembering the painful scene in the hallway.

"But he... wanted to know why you'd been crying. So I told him she was in hospital. Was I wrong to?"

Oh God. That must mean he's figured it out. Or did he know all along? Rose swallows, but it doesn't come anywhere near to dislodging the lump in her throat.

"Um, it's okay. I don't mind he knows. And if he asks, you can tell him what happened. That what we did didn't work. That's fine."

She sounds like a child, or a teenager who's split up with her boyfriend. This nightmarish situation has made her feel more like a child than she has since the Jimmy Stones debacle. She wonders briefly if she needs help, then realises that it doesn't really matter, because she most certainly can't have it.

"It would be better coming from you..."

Rose sighs and looks at Sarah Jane reproachfully. "Don't start that again."

"Rose, you need him. And he needs you."

"I don't need him. I don't even want him."

Sarah Jane is infuriated, but stays calm, battling the urge to correct her. "Fine. Maybe you don't. But I'm sure having him around might be helpful, especially now. Tell me you really, honestly don't want to see him and I'll leave it."

There's a pause, where Rose mentally debates whether or not this is the time to have this conversation. It seems disrespectful, frankly. A funeral, especially one as weird as this, isn't generally accepted to be the best place to talk about your love life. No, wait. Not love life. Friendship life? Personal life? Yeah, that'll do.

And now she feels disgusted with herself.

"I can't... do this here. I need a drink."

She quickly slides away, towards the bar, away from Sarah Jane. She does need a drink. She needs several drinks. Several large drinks.

_Self-destruction,_ she thinks, bitterly. _This should be fun._

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_Is it good? Is it bad? Is it so ugly that when it gets up in the morning it will choose to avoid any mirrors?_

_I believe this is the point I beg you all to Review._


	3. Chapter Two

_People reviewed it! And people liked it! This excites me way more than it should. But looking at the thing, loads of people apparently gave up after my rambling prologue, which only looks good after this chapter. Darn._

_Some language. Some mild, mild, mild language. And some more angst. Gotta love angst. Especially when I sort of, kind of, in a very minimalist way, lifted it from Do Me A Favour by the Arctic Monkeys. Can you tell?_

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It's so quiet in the car that even their breathing seems thunderous, an insult to the way things are, the long and short of the conversation he knows they must have, as unappealing as it seems.

There's so much tension and grief in the air a bystander could be excused for guessing that someone had died. And someone has. Someone neither of them knew, neither of them cared about. And It's their fault. Yet, somehow, the world hasn't stopped turning. He supposes that's a part of the problem.

She's staring out of the windshield from the driver's seat, guilt, grief and awkwardness radiating off her like she's glowing. He didn't know she could drive until today. Which is probably another part of the problem.

The day's light has been fading steadily for the last twenty minutes, and he realises inexplicably that he can't really have the conversation when it's dark.

"Rose-"

"Don't. Just don't."

Her voice sounds hoarse and shallow. The washed out day has saturated all the light from the car, the grey sky somehow making everything, even Rose, seem hollow and pale. She's staring fixedly at a bare tree, the sparse branches and muddy leaves out of place in a neighbourhood so spotless and clinical. Their dinky little dented car seems shameful against the four by fours and estate cars of the many careful suburban parents.

He tries again.

"We have to talk-"

"No, we don't. I won't. I can't."

They return again to their silence, but the urgency of the situation is now settling in, and he refuses to let this go. He glances over, not moving his head, trying to give her a second to herself, but she's unbuckling her seatbelt.

"I think I'll walk."

"Wait, what? This isn't my car."

"So? I can't stay in it any longer. And I'm sure you can drive. You can do just about everything else."

"Oh, that's hardly fair."

She reaches towards the door, but he swiftly stops her with a hand on her arm. She freezes, rigid, and he can't help the slight hint of bitterness that comes out when he speaks.

"None of this is my fault."

"Well it ain't mine either!"

"I know that."

"Then stop acting like it!"

They sit for a second, both scarcely breathing, and he studies her detachedly, absently noting how beautiful she is when she's angry. She looks at him venomously, and he doesn't really know what to do, now or in the wider sense. He swallows.

"Rose, this has to stop. So just... do something for me. Make me..." he searches for the words to say what he never thought he'd have to. "Make me not want to have you... here anymore. Give me some kind of concrete reason to want to leave you. Or tell me to leave, that you don't want this anymore. Because this has to stop."

She looks straight out of the windscreen, unseeingly, and he has no idea if she's just heard a word he's said. He supposes she must have done.

"Or, alternatively... just... stop it. Stop asking questions."

She looks at him incredulously, but he doesn't flinch, challenging her gaze with his own.

Then she swings around, opens her door and is gone so quickly the Doctor almost feels like he's imagined the last twenty minutes. No such luck.

He sighs and stares at his knees.

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He sits, quiet, his back against the console, and just thinks. He didn't think she'd do it. He didn't think she'd actually go through with it when it's so obvious he needs her and can give her pretty much anything.

Well, not anything. The world's earliest diamonds, yes. A trip to see the Beatles, yes. Alien trinkets and moon rocks, yes. But not what she wants. And he does know what she wants. And he even knows how he could give it to her, what he could say. It wouldn't be totally impossible. How doesn't she understand him at all by now? How long ago was it that they were standing together outside that chip shop in London and he explained, he explained to her as well as he could why he couldn't give her everything?

Really, he muses, she's being very selfish.

He squirms, his back numb from the hard metal of the rail he's been leaning on for so long. It's been a couple of hours since he left her and he wonders if she's had the chance to calm down. She was practically crying when she left. And he won't accept that as his fault. Can't she see that nearly everything's better than crying? That if she had kept it all inside, tried to forget what happened, then they might be off somewhere together now, to visit Boudica, or Chaucer, or Prince, or to finally see the noseless dogs of Barcelona?

It's so human to cry, so dreadfully, incredibly, painfully, terminally human. Because that's all she was, he thinks, defiantly. A human. A little girl from London who doesn't understand that the Gallifreyans were right, and that little human children shouldn't be allowed to travel through all of time and space. He's only just about learning that lesson now. Well, he supposes, better late than never.

He picks himself up and heaves his skinny body (that hasn't felt heavier in a long time) towards the door. He's not actually quite sure where he is right now. He had just pulled some levers and pressed some buttons and hoped for the best when he left. The tardis will have left him somewhere reasonable, he's sure of it.

Oh, who's he kidding? He knows better than anyone that she'll have left him somewhere cryptic or... important. And he doesn't really think he likes the sound of either of those things right now, actually.

He walks over to the door, his feet heavy and slow. He's almost there when suddenly it hits him. He's left her. He's actually left her, in a situation so dire he can't quite believe it. How much of a bastard is he? He leans against the door, accidentally-on-purpose hitting his head with more force than strictly necessary.

"Ow."

Why the hell did he let her leave? What's wrong with him? Does he not get it by now? Can he not see that he needs her?

The tardis hums at him in reproachful disapproval, and he kicks the door in defence, ready to deny anything the ship can throw at him.

"Shut up. She left me."

The air conditioning gets a little bit colder, and he can tell the tardis is losing her patience with him.

"Stop it."

The control panel fizzles menacingly, and he clenches his jaw, glaring at the centre column in annoyance.

"You can be a real bitch, you know, when you put your mind to it." There's silence, and he scowls. "That isn't a good thing."

And he turns and blusters out, not wanting to be left alone in such a busy empty room. He can't help noticing that the front door sticks a bit when he opens it. His ship's a stupid cow.

He wanders out of the tiny wooded area the tardis has seen free to park herself in and stops dead, all thoughts of his catty ship wiped from his mind. He has to hide. He has to hide, now, before she sees him, before he sees him. He dashes behind a tree a little in front of him, his mind reeling. This isn't right. They changed this. It's changed. It's gone, they can't be...

Rose lays a bunch of cream roses at a fresh grave, her long (far longer than he's just seen it) golden hair blustering about in the wind. It's cold, it's so cold, and she's wearing a cream woollen coat that matches her roses, and talking quietly to a man with his back to the Doctor, a tall, brown-haired man in a brown pinstripe suit and tan coloured trench coat. There's a huge blue police box about twenty metres away, just like the one he's just left inside the little graveyard forest behind him.

Oh crap.

His head reels. This future, this past, this time-scheme, whatever, it could be far away. It could be totally different. He doesn't know when he is. Where is a bit different, he muses, recognising instantly the gothic arches and ugly brick walls of the East London cemetery he knows... too well. Not Jackie, not Jackie, not Jackie, not Jackie...

This can't be happening.

Even though he can't see from his hiding place, he can hear Rose crying, and he hopes more than anything that the other Doctor's comforting her. He doesn't think he should be happy, considering the grievous circumstances, but he's almost glad to see this. He gets her back! He's going to get her back!

He's practically elated at the revelation, and then a horrid thought strikes him. What if they're just here to shout at each other again? Or as a final goodbye? This, what he's seeing... it can't be. It can't be. Three weeks ago, he thinks, proud again that only his time-scheme is the valid one. He fixed this three weeks ago. They wouldn't go back. They're not that stupid. They're not that selfish. The newspapers had changed. The gravestone didn't say what he suspects this one does now. Something must have happened, something weird, something huge.

He leans his head back against the bark of the tree and only narrowly avoids sighing-he can't let them hear, or there'll be the mother of all paradoxes. This is weird. This is really, really weird. He can nearly hear Rose talking, and can't decide if he should shut it out. The other... him must know he's there, he must remember it himself. Maybe that's why he's being so quiet. There must be a reason behind this, there must be a reason he's here.

Then the voices stop, and he pauses his breathing, scared that they'll hear it. He closes his eyes, praying that they won't see him, that they'll go.

And then he hears their footsteps fading away, and the sound of the tardis-well, a tardis. A version of the tardis. He doubts two versions of the same ship have ever been so close together before.

He needs to know when he is. And he needs to know what it says on that gravestone. He pokes his head out from behind the tree, still worried that something might be there.

Rose is staring at the place the now vanished tardis used to be, her back to him. This really isn't very fair, he muses, on either of them. This means he's left her, again. And he's not very happy with that. He can't understand why he's gone without her, what she could possibly have done that warranted being left for what he hopes can only be the second time. What on Earth they could have said to each other. He's beginning to regret that he didn't listen.

Then again, he supposes he'll know at some point.

Rose's head is bowed now, staring back down at the grave. She moves a little towards it, and the Doctor can see her shaking, even from his slightly removed hiding place. He's tired of seeing her crying.

Suddenly she turns and starts to run towards the church, her black heels making no noise in the grass. The Doctor hastily shoves himself back behind the tree, almost ashamed at how immature he feels, hiding from a girl behind a tree. He doubts any child's game could end in a universe destroying contradiction if it doesn't work, though.

He can still see her, cantering up towards the church, the early morning sun casting orange light that elongates her shadow, it's elegant shape bent and crooked over each of the stone steps as she races up towards the stone arch of the door. She dashes inside, and the Doctor finally allows himself to breathe again, no longer terrified she'll hear him.

Cautiously, he moves across the fallen autumn leaves that crunch under his feet, towards the newly dug grave, hoping, hoping, hoping.

Here lies the body of Jacqueline Tyler, 1967-2006.

He almost coughs in dark shock, despite the fact that he more than saw it coming. A feeling of dread, of sickly, endless, surprising dread fills him. It didn't work. Everything they did, everything they tried to do, didn't work. He has never felt so guilty in his entire life. All his 900 years speed back towards him, and he wonders how this could have happened, how the other him could possibly have left, and, most importantly, how the hell he's ever going to atone for what they've done.

He looks back towards the church, his mind telling him not to succumb to the temptation to follow Rose, and his heart, his guts, telling him to rush straight inside.

He looks back down at the grave, at the pile of beautiful cream roses that make so stark a contrast with the brown earth and decomposing autumn leaves that have fallen from a tree overhead. It's such a waste, he thinks, inexplicably distracted, to throw them onto a pile to whither and die.

The wind howls, and the flowers bristle with it, one rolling over to fall at his feet. The earth has already stained it, brown patches on some of the velvety petals. He kneels down and picks it up, brushing away some of the sediment. He places the rose back on its pile, then looks at the gravestone in front of him with hatred. He doesn't understand, he hates it when he doesn't understand.

He stands up and turns towards the church, knowing it's not sensible, but that he's kidding himself if he honestly believes he's not going inside. He just has to hope she won't see him. As he walks over, he can already hear the sobs coming from inside. And now he knows she won't know he's there.

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She didn't really want to stay until the end of the evening, but now she doesn't think she could see to get up from the bar. There's very few people left from the funeral party-the pub is now open for its usual business, and the mourners and taggers-on have pretty much all left by now. Even Sarah Jane has left-she wanted to stay, but Rose had sent her on her way as politely as she could, not sure she could really handle any more sympathy, sincere or otherwise.

Rose isn't exactly drunk, more like... mournfully intoxicated. The bartender is still serving her, which Rose thinks is dreadfully kind. She has downed several whiskeys (Howard, who left earlier, is paying for the mourners' drinks, and she doesn't really see why she should stay sober) and the brash barmaid would normally have stopped her by now, but for some reason hasn't-if it's because she thinks she's being kind by letting Rose get drunk on the day of her mother's funeral, or because she knows that bereaved drunks often make good tippers Rose isn't sure, but she doesn't care much.

She's glad to see that no one's paying too much attention to her-dressed in black, alone, silently nursing her drink she is a poster girl for vulnerability, and so many men would see this as the perfect time to talk to her. Strangely, she feels almost rejected by this, wondering absently what it is about her that means she will be alone forever.

Then she hears a cough from behind her. She knows who it is. She's almost been expecting him. It was obvious he'd come, and probably that he'd make it all about himself. She doesn't turn, speaking instead into her drink.

"Hello."

"Hi."

He sits on the bar stool next to hers and she can't help but see him out of the corner of her eye. He's dressed in his brown pinstripe suit. She feels almost offended he hasn't made an effort to change if he's going to gatecrash a funeral party. If it wasn't for her last three drinks, she's not sure she would comment.

"You could have changed."

"No, I couldn't. I only found out about five minutes ago, in the grand scheme of things. Sarah Jane told me where to go. Rose, I'm so, so, so-"

"Sorry for my loss, thanks, I know."

He's quiet as she takes another sip of her drink. She still hasn't looked at him.

"Did you ever find out what was wrong?"

"No. The doctors can't figure it out. But she didn't seem too bad. No one thought it was anything she'd die from. Ha bloody ha."

Rose swings her bar stool around to gaze at the rest of the chattering room, still avoiding eye contact.

"Are you... okay?"

Rose is quiet for a second, then gravely nods, surprised that it's actually rather true. She thought she would have done much worse than this.

"Rose?"

"No, really, I'm fine." She's speaking to him in the slow, measured way that you might to a child.

"Rose, look at me."

Reluctantly, she turns, and sees, slightly to her surprise, real concern in his eyes. For some reason, that makes her loathe him all the more.

He doesn't really know what to do, or why he told her to look at him. He needed to see her, he supposes. Momentarily, he has made the decision not to hate her, even when it would be so, so easy to, especially after so many months of telling himself he doesn't care.

"If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

She widens her eyes at him incredulously, and he cringes a little, realising his mistake.

"I told you before. Don't flatter yourself."

She looks away again, and he straightens up, realising that Jackie's death hasn't really changed anything, and that she's still as bitter as he's been for the last six months. He inwardly questions if he made the right decision to come to the bar. He knew he had to talk to her at some point. He already... did.

"Where is everyone? I thought you liked to travel with an entourage."

The doctor clenches his jaw at her reticence.

"I thought you and Sarah Jane talked?"

"It's not always about you, you know."

He grimaces.

"Fine. I'm alone."

"Right."

"Right."

There's an uncomfortable pause.

"Fun, isn't it?"

The Doctor doesn't know if he's supposed to laugh. She isn't laughing, but he doesn't really blame her. He tries again, deciding to take the easy way out.

"Rose, if I'd have known, I would have-"

"For God's sake, stop it. You wouldn't." He can't fault her logic. She's more right than she knows.

"I would have if you'd have let me."

"Ha. It doesn't matter anyway, now, does it?"

The Doctor frowns. She isn't making this easy. He wishes he could leave. He doesn't know what on Earth was going through his mind when he first decided to come.

She turns her knees towards him and he notices for the first time that Sarah Jane was right, she has lost weight. She looks positively haggard, her eyes hollow, but he suspects that's more to do with tears. He barely knows her. She looks at him, her gaze challenging. He curses the glass that shakes a little in her hand.

"Can we observe the elephant in the room, please?"

He doesn't move, not saying anything, wondering which of the horrible, gargantuan elephantine problems she's referring to.

"How could you have just left like that?"

"What?"

"Do you think of anything other than yourself, ever?"

"Stop."

"I hate you."

She almost spits the insult, a low hiss, her eyes flashing with fury.

He glares back, unsurprised at her reaction. He knows he shouldn't sink to her level, but he can't stop himself.

"Yeah, well, there's a bit of me that hates you too. There's a bit of me that asks why I'm even bothering sitting here, talking to you when you're drunk and so obviously a naive little girl who can't even begin to understand real life." Rose puts her glass down defiantly and clenches her fists, silent and seething. He notes her anger and it does nothing but make him want to return the feeling. "Why do humans seem to live off angst? I didn't leave you. We left each other."

Rose is outraged. Her brain is telling her to stop, to leave, to get out now before she's in too deep, but by now she's too far gone with the words that have been forming for the last six months to care. "How dare you? How exactly would I be able to leave you? You said you were coming back for me!"

"We both knew-"

"Oh, that's no excuse! You just dumped me back here to pick up from my old life."

"Yes, well some people might think you'd be grateful for that."

She raises her voice, anger consuming her. "Hardly! How was I supposed to just carry on? After two years?!?! You selfish bastard-"

"So now I'm not allowed to leave you behind? What if I don't want to travel with you anymore?"

"Then at least have the decency to TELL ME!"

"SHUT UP! Just stop it!"

The bar has gone totally silent, the men staring at their drinks and the women glancing over with interest at the scene. One particularly nosey woman has even stood up to get a better look.

"You stop it! I would have left. I would have..." Rose looks down, her eyes welling up with tears. She wills her voice not to break. "I would have gone the second you told me you didn't want me anymore."

The Doctor isn't looking at her, instead surveying the quiet people in the room. She wonders briefly if he feels guilty, or if he's just remembering what she overheard in an East London caff, then firmly tells herself that she doesn't care. Not giving a damn about how it looks, or whether or not this is what's supposed to happen, Rose picks up her bag and grabs her coat off a hook, flouncing through the door. She doesn't so much as glance back at him.

The Doctor watches her, then stares at his drink, fighting a losing battle within himself not to follow. He doesn't so much decide to go as he feels himself putting the glass down, grabbing his coat and chasing after. Her mother has just died, after all. She's not stable. And apparently this has all happened before. He can hear the chat begin again as he leaves he room.

---------------------------

_Should I have published this in chronological order? Should the angst be toned down? Am I accidentally writing a soap opera? Am I doomed to work for the Hollyoaks scripting department? Does anyone get this, at all? When you're writing something, it always makes sense to you. Other people though... sometimes it's hard to tell. Help... by reviewing!_

_Also, I'm sorry about the bit with the roses. It comes off a bit emo. Whoops._


	4. Chapter Three

_They get longer. And sometimes more complicated. But hopefully, by the end, less confusing._

---------------------------

He hates lifts, especially when he's on his own. He's never really been one for waiting.

It's a cold, wet, cloudy day in London, and he doesn't see why Sarah Jane wouldn't let him whisk her off somewhere nicer. She refuses to set foot inside the tardis nowadays. She says she "doesn't want to offend the old girl, but she feels a bit more at home in her flat nowadays". He's given up even pretending to understand women. He might be an alien, but _men_, now _men _he understands. And he gets along perfectly well with children. _But once girls reach about twelve_, he thinks, morose, _There's no bloody hope._

He looks in the mirror of the lift with detached interest. He's never been a big sleeper, but even for a Time Lord he's pushing the limits-there are bags under his eyes and dark circles that make him look even more gaunt than usual. In a weird way, he rather likes it.

The lift finally _ding_s open at his floor and he steps out into a bright, naturally lit hallway. He hadn't really thought about how Sarah Jane had done for herself, and now he's reasonably impressed-earning enough to rent one of these flats is clearly rather hard to do, especially as a writer.

She's given him her flat number, and he's written it down... somewhere. He digs his hand into his coat pocket, damning it's gallifreyan structure-he can store pretty much anything, but it gets harder and harder to find what he wants. The piece of paper has to be in there somewhere, he remembers putting it in. If he could just...

And then he hears women's voices and freezes, his hands rammed awkwardly into his pockets. He knows who's coming but is somehow powerless to move, his limbs not obeying the frantic messages from his mind that tell him to hide, to _move, move, move!_

"Really, Rose, anytime, anything you want, whatever happens..."

The door directly in front of him opens and suddenly they're face to face, so close all he can see are her eyes, huge, hazel and red ringed, and still painfully familiar. She gasps, and he can almost feel the breath catching in her throat as it catches in his own. The blood rushes to his head and he feels like he's drowning, stuck.

And then she looks down sharply and the moment's broken. He's aware of something at the back of his mind, but there aren't actually any words he can recognise, just a muffled niggling that he knows he should listen to, if he can just stop staring at her and-

"Doctor? Doctor!"

He whips his head around so fast he's sure he'll have whiplash. Sarah Jane looks at him nervously, apologetically.

"Rose was just on her way out, weren't you, Rose?"

Rose doesn't look up, but gives a small, abashed nod that nearly makes his hearts break all over again. She coughs and tilts her head back towards the older woman, her hair falling into her eyes. She brushes it away swiftly, ashamed.

"Er, yeah. Thanks." Her hands shiver slightly and she tucks them into the sleeves of her black jumper dress. "I'll er... let you know about-"

"How everything goes?"

Rose nods again, then turns her face marginally towards the doctor, still not making eye contact. Never in the history of his being has he wanted someone to look into his eyes so much.

"See you Sarah Jane." She ducks around the Doctor and he fights the urge to turn and watch her walk away as she dashes down the stairs, choosing to forgo waiting for the lift. He closes his eyes and tries to steel himself. He doesn't trust himself to breathe as he listens to the fading echo of her rapidly retreating, uneven footsteps. Eventually he hears the door to the building slam shut and his heart sinks just a little more. Should he have told her? Was it his place? Was he supposed to? Was now the time to-

"Doctor?"

His eyes snap open and Sarah Jane looks at him worriedly. "Are you alright?"

He opens his mouth to answer her, to let her know he is alright, he's always alright, but somehow words fail him. He closes his mouth again and bites his lip. She gets the message.

---------------------------

"I'll be back in a minute. Don't steal my chips."

"Would I?"

"Do you want the honest answer or the sugar coated, I-love-my-Doctor version?"

"Oh, bugger off."

Rose rolls her eyes cheekily and heads towards the toilet, and the doctor smiles, enjoying the teasing. He watches her leave, her swaying hips even more accentuated than normal in her long silk strapless dress. He sighs happily, ruffles his hair and undoes his shirt's top button, leaving his bow tie precariously hanging around his neck. Today has been a good day, and apart from the small incident with a certain breed of cantankerous, party-loving plutonian, they have behaved almost like a themselves, not the old, grumbly married couple they seem to have been mentally inhabiting for the last couple of weeks.

He yawns, marvelling that he feels sleepy. His eyelids feel heavy. Tired, he can do. The Doctor knows tired better than anyone. But sleepy is a new one-

When he wakes up, there's no one left but him, Rose and a very bored looking waitress in the little caff. The lights have all been turned down and Rose is staring at him, her eyes huge and fearful. He shakes his head in surprise.

"How long have I been asleep?"

Rose doesn't answer, instead just looking at him, biting her lip so hard it's a wonder it isn't bleeding. He's suddenly wide awake.

"Rose, what's wrong?"

She shakes her head, tears in her eyes, her hair brushing against the bare, milky skin of her neck. He tries not to think about it.

"Rose, seriously, what's wrong?"

She keeps quiet for a second, then stands and grabs his hand, pulling him up from his seat and through the door, out into the little side streets of East London that by now they both know so well-the London of six months after Rose's own time is very similar to her own.

She is already shaking from the cold, but she doesn't feel it. It would have been intelligent to go back to the tardis and get a coat, but there isn't enough time, and the silk dress that trails behind her in the dirt will have to do.

The doctor stares at her back, desperately worried, letting himself be dragged, the greatest feeling of foreboding he has ever experienced creeping at his back like the grim reaper.

"Rose, please, just tell me. What's wrong? Where are we going?"

She still doesn't answer, just speeding up until she's practically running, her hand gripping the Doctor's so tightly it hurts.

Minutes pass, and he begins to wonder if she knows where she's going in such a hurry, or if they're just running away.

"Rose, for God's sake, just-"

She stops so abruptly he finds himself slamming into her, and the pair have to steady themselves. He looks up, the dark making it hard to see where they are.

"Where are we?"

Rose clears her throat.

"When I was in the bathroom I heard... some people," she practically whispers, her words so quiet he has to strain to hear. "One of them was talking about a funeral their mum went to today."

The doctor says nothing, not sure he'd know how to interrupt.

"She said that it was a small funeral, and that they'd had it in some big church a few minutes away. And that it was terribly sad, cause this woman, Jackie they said she was called, died suddenly, in a car crash, and that the bloke who hit her was her daughter's ex, and that he's a total waste of space."

His blood runs cold.

"And that the daughter was in some bar that they'd just been in, yelling at some bloke about leaving her."

The doctor's heart thuds against his ribs.

"Rose, there are plenty of Jackie-s in London."

Rose's eyes are widened. "That's why we're here."

He looks up, and finally realises that they're outside a church, and that they're standing next to the gate to a graveyard. Everything clicks into place.

"We aren't going in there. We can't."

She looks at him, innocent, curious, fearful. He doesn't want to be saying no to anything she asks. He just has to.

"There could be a massive... paradox. We can't look. We can't... see. We can't let ourselves..."

Her hand tightens in his and he can feel the cold skin of her arm as it brushes against the back of his hand. If it was anything else, anything at all, he's sure he'd already have given in. But if Rose is right, seeing what they so desperately don't want to see could ruin... everything, potentially, not least Rose's life. If he thinks back to what she says, in a weird way it already has.

He holds her gaze and moves his hands up to her shoulders, gripping onto her bare skin. They look at each other, and they're both scared, so scared.

"This will _never_ be a good idea. So right now, we are going to walk away from here, back to the tardis, and we're going to forget this ever happened, you hear me Rose? Because what you're thinking does not bare thinking about."

He won't leave her. He won't leave her. He won't... won't leave...?

"Jackie Tyler was NOT buried today. Alright? I promise, Rose. Alright? You hear me? Especially not because of your ex."

Rose still wants to go, he can see it in her eyes. But she understands. Or, at least, he can see she's trying to understand, and that she wants to agree with him.

They turn, they leave, and they quietly walk back to the tardis.

---------------------------

The night air is impossibly crisp after the smoky bar. He soon catches sight of her, not far away, retreating back down the road, towards the tube station.

'Rose! Oi! Rose!" She doesn't turn, still walking down the dark street in her slightly overly glamorous funeral attire. A group of boys whistle at her and she doesn't so much as look.

"Rose, don't just walk away, we're not done! I'm not finished yet! Who took all their stuff without telling me? And what about Mickey? And Adam? And Jack, for that matter?" He rushes forward, gaining speed. "Everyone you picked up? Did I ever comment?"

She keeps going, but he just walks faster and shouts louder, too angry to give a damn that she's drunk and has just lost her mother in the weirdest, most distressing way possible.

"No, I didn't! Mickey made all his own choices, it wasn't my fault he left. I never wanted him there!"

Rose is slowing down, but he keeps going, catching up, not caring that the teenagers on the other side of the road are cat calling.

"You invited people into both our lives, you brought them along, into _my life, my domain_, even when I didn't..."

Rose finally turns and cuts him off, now walking backwards, shouting back. "Domain? _Domain? _ You were keener to have Mickey there than I was!"

"Ah, yes, and why was that?"

"What?"

"Why didn't you want him there?"

Rose stops, and so does he, several metres from each other, watching each other defiantly in the dark.

"Why _did _you want him there?"

The street lamp above them cast shadows across his face that looking positively menacing as he frowns. He looks at Rose expectantly.

"I asked first."

She glares at him for a moment, and he almost thinks she's going to storm off again.

Then she tilts her face upwards, staring at the sky. He has no idea what she's going to say, or if she's going to answer the question. In a way, he hopes she won't. She looks back at him, frozen, livid, then her shoulders slump and she makes a sort of half smile.

"You know, people always make a big old fuss in London about the _air_ pollution." She pauses, and he stares at her, incredulous. She sighs, slightly irritated he doesn't understand what she means. "_No one seems to care they can't see the stars_. When you... after I got back I used to go on the roof and try to pick out all the constellations you'd shown me, only I couldn't make any of them out, 'cause the lights made the stars so hard to see." She looks at him, some of the anger gone from her face. "Mum thought I was nuts, going up there. I think she thought I was trying to kill myself. But here I am." Her expression hardens. "Still going on, alone. Travelling with you changed me, Mum said. Made me stronger. You always had the will to survive, you know? So I thought I could do it alone, be alone." She looks at him, and he feels naked, like she's seeing all the way into his head by knowing what it feels like to be him. "But maybe not this alone. How do you _stand _it?" Her voice raises in pitch, close to breaking. "How do you _bear_ being _this alone_?"

_That's what this is about? Really?_

She's almost crying, her eyes glistening with tears. He doesn't really know how to answer, and wishes he could hold her. He hasn't let himself miss her, but now it's finally coming through, bleeding through the cracks he had thought might have been healing over. He knows he can't do it, and tries to remain impassive.

"You live with it."

Rose nods, her breathing erratic, suddenly looking so small and vulnerable underneath the yellow light. He's seen her like this before, holding her father's hand as he died in 1987, staring at her mother's grave in a possible future, saying goodbye to the best friend she's ever had. He knows this woman. He's comforted this woman. She's coming apart, awkward and self-aware. And he finally feels guilty.

"Rose, I'm sorry." It comes out in a gush, speaking before he really understands the connotations of what he's saying. She gives a little sob, and he can't stop himself rushing forward to hug her. Still, she pushes him away. He tries not to look too much into it.

"I know you are."

"How? I didn't."

She gives a shaky laugh, stepping back a little bit. His hearts twinge as she withdraws.

"I'm a woman, we always know these things."

He clenches his jaw, fighting not to beg with her, to plead for her to come back with him. He's surprised at his willpower.

"An' you're a bloke. Even after 900 years you don't know everything about yourself."

She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again there's a new look of exhaustion that he's not sure he's ever seen before.

"Do you have any idea how tiring it is to know you? I am so, so, so _so..._ tired."

Desperation breaks into his voice. "Imagine _being _me."

"I don't really want to."

He looks downwards and finds himself staring at their feet, hers in their black heels and his in his battered white converse. They always were the odd couple. No, not couple. Never couple. Even if in their current situation they do bare more than a passing resemblance to Bonnie and Clyde.

"Doctor, I can't just forgive you, no matter how hard I try, not with what's happened. And not when you don't understand what I'm talking about." She speaks so softly he barely hears her, but her words hit home spectacularly. He frowns and glances up at her.

"What makes you think I don't understand? I've lost people."

"Yeah, but not the same way. My dad dies and I don't remember him, then I almost have him back, then I lose him, then I almost have another one again and I lose him as well. And Mickey left. And you left. And then I lost mum an' all, even when you _promised _me it would be alright. Four most important people in my life are gone, if you can ever say I had Dad in the first place."

He doesn't need to think before he answers. "Yeah, but I'm back now."

She hardens. "For how long?"

He doesn't want to say it when he knows it isn't true, not for him, but if he can only get her back one way he'll have to.

"Forever. That's what we... what we said..."

"And look how well that worked out."

He rubs his temple, on edge once again. He doesn't think this is the place for this, with burly teenagers and Rose drunk and the first hint of rain splashing against his forehead.

"Is there any way, at all?"

She waits, considering, then shrugs. "Not now."

He doesn't understand. "Not yet? Not anymore?"

"Not now. Don't ask me now, because I don't know."

The rain starts coming down harder, and he just stares at her as she looks up to the sky, the raindrops trickling down her face like tears. The teenagers have skulked away somewhere and they're utterly alone in the road, the only sound the increasingly hard pit-pat of the rain and their breathing. He wonders how she doesn't hear his thumping heart as he watches her. She looks at him and smiles sympathetically, sadly, and he won't take another second, he can't take another moment of being with her like this, when he can't have her and he wants her so much it breaks him.

"Rose, please... just tell me when you know," he stutters, running a hand through his wet hair to hide the fact it's shaking. She nods honestly and he returns it, and then, though neither really feels like it, they both smile.

------------------------------

_Can you tell what happened? What's going to happen? What the hell is going on in my head? Pray do tell, the blue button likes being pressed._

_Okay, that came out really weirdly._


	5. Chapter Four

_Teeny bit of swearing from a character of stratospherically important proportions, and about two lines of dialogue. You've got to love FanFiction._

_Oh, and it's a long one. And an explanatory one. With more dialogue than I've ever written in anything before. Knock yourself out._

_I was on the phone with Russell yesterday, and he said we could share the show, so there's no need for me to disclaim. No, wait... that was a dream. Crap._

------------------------------

He finally thinks he's done it, that he's gone too far this time. Rose, of course, is having none of it.

"Oh my God."

He tugs on her arm, more than a little unnerved at the arguably magnificent sight in front of him.

"Rose, c'mon, let's leave."

She tugs back at her arm, never moving her eyes away from the scene, her decision to watch just as firm as his not to. He grabs for her again, but she chooses to shrug him off, seemingly irritated at his diffidence.

"Rose, come _on_."

"No!"

He stands in front of her and she has no choice but to look at him. He stands close, not letting her see what's happening over his shoulder.

"Don't even think about it. I'm serious. This is like the end of the world but... infinitely much worse."

"Yeah. But it's amazing, isn't it?" What might have once been part of a smaller planet's moon soars past them, speeding towards the horizon.

He shakes his head. "No. It's terrible. Terrible and absolutely, completely, unspeakably-"

"Terrifying?"

He nods, and she looks at him despairingly.

"This is... the end! It's incredible. It's _good_ terrifying. We're the only people who'll ever see this happen, ever. How can you not let this affect you?"

He can see stars whooshing past over her head out of the corner of his eye, but he never takes his gaze off the girl in front of him, both worried and fascinated by her childlike lack of fear. She looks back, disbelieving and even slightly desperate, and he wishes he could somehow make her understand what he's thinking, something so complex he's not even sure he understands it.

_And she's usually so good at reading me, too._

He finally moves back, not blocking her view anymore. But he can't say he's happy. He can't even say that things haven't changed.

"I can't believe it's finishing."

_Please no._

"Mmm-hmm."

He bites his lip as he watches her face, her features frozen somewhere between morbid fascination and unrivalled sadness. They're going to have to run. There's no reason they can't make it, he supposes. And they'll have plenty of warning.

And together, apart, for what might be forever and might be no time at all, they watch the universe end.

------------------------------

He suspects she forgets to call the first week. He thinks she must be busy the second. Things seem suspicious by third. The fourth week is hell. And subsequent weeks only get worse.

He finally makes the decision to ask her again after it's been (for her) eight weeks. He's spent the time chasing round Elizabethan London, visiting Mussolini's Italy and seeing Edith Piaf's final concert in Paris, amongst other things. He doesn't question why he chose not to leave Earth.

He finds her easily enough, just flicking a switch, pressing a button and arriving. Actually leaving the tardis is another matter.

He's landed in central London, in Trafalgar Square, right next to a stone lion, the tardis in plain sight. When she walks past, in exactly two minutes, there's no doubt she'll see him. And he hopes, he _hopes_, he bloody _hopes_ she'll talk to him.

The seconds are counting down quickly, and he throws caution to the wind, flinging the door wide. It's raining, tipping it down, casting lake-like puddles over the stone and darkening the almost yellow sky, wide and grey, ominous, stormy, overpowering. He steps out into the elements, his suit and hair immediately drenched. It's freezing, it's utterly freezing. It's times like these he's almost glad of the eventual effects of global warming.

The water pelts down as little bullets, and he instinctively moves his arm to cover himself, braced for the storm, deflecting the rain. He's so involved in marvelling at the extremities that he almost doesn't notice her standing at the top of the steps, staring at him. She's holding an umbrella, but she's still soaked, her wet hair sticking to her face and neck.

He stares back, pretending he can't feel the steady drenching of his suit, that it's just a normal day, that he just happens to be here. It's a shame really that Rose isn't an absolute moron.

He raises his hand in a faux-surprised gesture of casual greeting, but when he's met with a look of despair, he hastily drops his hand limply to his side. They keep the eye contact a little longer, his apologetic grimace and her silent dolefulness bouncing off each other, magnified by the storm and the unusual emptiness of the square.

She starts walking towards him, rhythmically clacking down the stairs towards him, avoiding the puddles. He feels himself tense, readying himself for attack. She's staring at her feet as they drop from step to step, and it's only then that he notes her unusual clothing-she's smart, very smart, wearing a lot of what she wore to Jackie's funeral, and her cream coat besides. Still, she looks a mess, utterly wet and windswept. And much too thin.

He's not surprised when she doesn't stop, and makes a point of grabbing her arm as she passes, not letting her pass.

"Rose..."

"I'm late, I have to go."

The edge of her umbrella is dripping on him, and he pulls her closer so they're both underneath it, sheltered, protected from the rain, so close he can smell her perfume-Jackie's old perfume. Somehow it smells better on Rose than he ever remembers it did on her mother. It's all about what you relate it to, he supposes.

"Doctor, I really do have to go."

He looks down at her, listening to the pit-pat of the rain against the taught material of the umbrella. She does honestly look upset, apologetic, but that just makes him want to delay her more.

"What is it, where are you going?"

She doesn't answer, taking a deep breath, shakily, in, out. He tries again, another question, more pressing this time.

"Are you alright?"

She raises her head to nod, but never actually goes through with the action, and simply shrugs, disappointedly, defeatedly. He almost asks what's wrong, but realises quite how stupid that would be at the last second, and just hugs her, drawing her close, mindful of the trembling hand that holds the umbrella.

"Can I take you anywhere?" he mumbles into her hair, and he just about registers the shake of her head below his chin, but it might be a shiver. She's wetter than he is, despite the (limited) shelter of her umbrella. She must have been in the rain a long time. She looks tired, and he suspects that the only reason she's letting herself be this physically close to him is because she's so worn out. But that's alright. He's tired too. Eventually he feels her start to pull away, but decides not to let her, keeping her pressed against him, feeling as if it's the only way he'll know she's safe. She mumbles something he can't make out into his chest, and he pulls back just enough to hear her properly.

"What?"

She smiles exhaustedly, looking up at him, a hint of the old grin coming through.

"I asked what time it was."

He widens his eyes questioningly, fully aware she knows he won't know the time.

"But then I realised that the Lord of Time doesn't carry a watch."

"Ha ha."

She leans in again, her head on his chest, listening to his peculiar double heart beat. They're quiet for a moment, not altogether unhappy, just pensive and perhaps a little plaintive. She sniffs.

"As nice as this is..."

"Hmmm?"

"...I have to go."

He nods.

"And where to might that be?"

Rose looks up at him contumaciously, her eyes proudly defiant.

"I have a job interview."

He looks at her approvingly, pleased she's proving herself strong enough to do that. He personally _hates _the idea of getting a job. It's somewhat gratifying to know she's not so like him now that she's got _all_ his hang-ups.

"What do you want to do?"

She smiles and rolls her eyes in forced coyness, and he's curious.

"Seriously. What?"

She looks a bit bashful.

"Er... I thought I might try singing. In a bar. You don't need qualifications or anything, and they don't care if you went missing for a year when you were nineteen... or if you can't tell them where you went when you went travelling, or what you did."

"You sing?"

She raises her eyebrows.

"It was either that or write science-fiction novellas."

"And that might take a while."

"Well, we did do a lot."

He nods again, wondering where the rambling's disappeared to. She detaches herself from his arms, and the Doctor clears his throat.

"Can I see you later?"

Her eyes narrow, seemingly of their own accord. He takes it as a no.

"When can I?"

A shrug.

"Can I come to hear you sing?"

"This is presuming I actually get the job."

He hadn't thought of that. He just sort of _presumes_ all the normal little human things work out, that they aren't as convoluted as the things he finds himself doing on a daily basis. Based on the troubles he's found himself in for the last six months or so, he really should have figured it out that it's a bit more complicated than that by now.

"Right."

"And now I have to go."

"Songs won't sing themselves?"

"Something like that."

She starts to walk away, and as he stares at the ground and begins to feel the tumultuous rain thunder onto him again, he isn't actually quite sure what's just happened, if he's just imagined what seems like the most unrealistically normal meeting in the middle of the world's most complicated and labyrinthine argument.

"Doctor?"

He looks up, and she's already halfway across the curiously empty square, looking back at him, calling out, still getting soaked, in spite of the umbrella.

"Merry Christmas."

She smiles at his surprise.

"It's Christmas?"

She makes a non-commital motion. "The twenty-fifth of December. It's Christmas for some people, I suppose."

The only sound is the whirlwind gush of the torrents of rain and the clack of her shoes as the loneliest couple in London part for what they both secretly expect to be the last time.

------------------------------

"We don't have to do this."

"Yes, Doctor, we do."

She has her hands on the steering wheel, gripping it so tightly her knuckles are white. It's strange to be back in Mickey's little car, especially with the Doctor, and especially when Mickey's so long gone. She doubts he'd approve of what they're about to do with his car. Although she's sure he'd say it couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke.

The Doctor, if anything, looks less keen to do this than Rose, if that's possible. He's angry at himself, she can see it, bubbling away at the surface, a new little piece of self-hatred building inside him at the realisation that he should really be stopping this, be letting it run its course. Not that Rose would ever allow that. She can't let her mum die when she knows she could stop it. She'd never let herself leave her mum's side again when she left the house.

"Doctor?" He turns and looks at her from the passenger seat, a look of steely watchfulness accentuating his dark, almost predatory features.

"What is it?"

She stares at her lap.

"Why can't we just... stop him? Rather than..."

"Resort to killing the poor bastard?"

She nods, wincing, not enjoying his use of the word _killing_.

"Reapers."

Rose raises her eyebrows, but doesn't look up, not wanting to see his face when he's saying something she doesn't understand, but feels she should.

He elaborates. "When you pushed your dad out of the way of the car, the driver just kept circling around the block, over and over, like a wound in time..."

She's starting to get it.

"...and we're taking the driver out of the equation. So, for your mum, there'll never be anyone to hit her. And we won't end up hiding inside a church from big bat-like things with fangs."

She wonders if she's supposed to laugh at that. She doesn't, but she wonders all the same. It gives all the old "killing your ex-boyfriend" jokers something real to laugh about. She looks back out of the window on her side, realising that she's neglecting part of her own job (looking out for the police and/or any potential witnesses).

"How are we going to... have been here? In the first place? If Mum doesn't die? I won't have... heard those people in the bathroom."

The Doctor sighs dramatically, wearily. It seems a bit un-called for to be so blasé about a paradox, but it's the kind of thing he works out in a second, the kind of thing that makes her feel so stupid when her stupid ape mind can't catch up with it.

"We'll have to use a plant, someone fake inside the bathroom. Did you ever see who was saying it?"

Rose pauses, remembering, then shakes her head at the memory of her hiding inside the cubical, crouching with her feet on a seat, scarcely breathing so they wouldn't know she was there, hoping beyond all rational means that they might have been talking about another East London Jackie with a travelling daughter and a scumbag ex-boyfriend. She never thought to look at their faces. _Thank God, _she thinks. _Thank God I forgot to be curious._

"Then we can just use a tape or something. Or ask some people to act out a play for us. You've got to remember, if we do this now, it will never have happened in the first place. By now only my timeline is relevant, and we haven't seen Jackie dead, so she never has been if we stop him from hitting her."

It's a sort of comfort, at least. That her mum has never been dead. Gives her something less to worry about. And it's the fairest way for him to die, she supposes, hit by a car, especially the car of someone who hated him so much it hurt.

"Rose, are you sure about this?"

The question in his voice forces her to look up at him, worried that he's having second thoughts.

"Yes, I'm sure. If it stops my mum from _dying_, then I'm very sure."

The Doctor frowns, and she can't tell what's running through his head.

"What if it wasn't Jimmy?"

She almost laughs at that.

"Trust me, it was Jimmy."

"How do you know?"

Now it's Rose's turn to sigh. "Because the only other options are Mickey, and you can see the flaw in that, and this bloke called Tim."

"And why not him?"

"Tim runs a charity for AIDs orphans. He adopted a kid when he was twenty-two. He advanced the research into Alzheimer's by about twenty years when he was at uni. I don't think anyone's going to call him a waste of space. And he doesn't drive anyway, he thinks it's bad for the environment."

The Doctor smiles. "Well, he sounds like a lot of fun."

Rose nearly laughs, despite herself. "I left him in the end when he took me back to his flat and I found eleven copies of January 2005's _Big Issue_. He said he didn't have the heart to say no to someone who quite obviously had been through so much."

"You dumped him because he bought too many copies of the same magazine?"

"No, that was alright. I chucked him when I found a tramp asleep in his bedroom."

The Doctor guffaws, and Rose smiles weakly, then bristles as she hears a familiar voice.

"... you've gotta be _kidding_ me!"

He's about a hundred metres away from them, on the phone, shouting merrily, lolloping down the street, his guitar slung over his shoulder. Rose cowers down in her seat, and the Doctor twists round to see their victim, his laughter gone, swallowed by the sudden recollection that someone is going to die.

"Is that him?"

Rose doesn't answer, and he takes her silence to mean yes. Jimmy's laughing, his conversation echoing down the empty street.

"Shit, man. I'd never have left if I thought she was still up for it after you were done with her."

"Nice," The Doctor murmurs, and Rose scowls, remembering why she hated him, how he ruined her life. And she won't let him do it again. He's still far enough away that she doesn't have to start the engine, but she's looking around, making sure the street's still empty.

"Rose," the Doctor whispers, trying to keep her calm, "Does he deserve to die?"

She clenches her jaw, knowing the answer but refusing to accept it.

She can't help the desperation breaking into her voice. "I need my mum."

The Doctor puts a hand on her arm, getting worried that the time to act is near and Rose doesn't know what she's doing, or whether or not she should be doing it. Jimmy's only twenty feet away from them now. The Doctor can barely disguise his panic.

"Rose, look, this is it, this is what it comes down to. It's now or never. But if you do do this, you're going to have to live with it forever. Can you do that?"

Rose is frozen, staring at Jimmy, at the guitar, at the denim jacket that _she bought him_ all those years ago. He destroyed her, he absolutely destroyed her, and she won't let him destroy her life again, not when she's rebuilt her defences, finally lost the vulnerability and pain he left her with for so many years. She just hopes the guilt is easier than losing her mum would be.

He's crossing the road, still on the phone, still laughing, still so _Jimmy_, so oblivious to the real world, to anything that could and _will_ happen to him. Seeing the street's empty, she steps on the accelerator.

_Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God..._

_---------------------------------------_

_Get it? And now you review..._


	6. Chapter Five

_Hi! It's me! Remember me? Sorry it's been so long. On top of a rather lovely trip to the exotic lands of Ireland (university related trip) I've also not been around for a while because writing this has filled me with self hatred and disgust. It's actually been RIDICULOUSLY difficult. You'll see why. I'm going to upload the epilogue as well, so unless I have technical difficulties (which could happen very, very easily) this is pretty near the end for us. There were some extra scenes featuring Sarah Jane, and a very nice joke about Love-Lies-Bleeding flowers, but I refrained from that, mostly because I didn't want to dilute the sheer, unadulterated angstish-ness of something that took me about a week to do. _

_It's pretty dark. As in REALLY dark. So if you think I need to go up to an M, please say, yeah? In your review? Which you'll do at the end? Hopefully without telling me how horrible I am?_

_I hate to sound like Lemony Snicket (what? I don't read children's' books! Ho-hum) but this might be a bit of a downer. Especially the last bit. So if you're a delicate flower (or really sensitive about religion and stuff like that) you might want to look elsewhere for something to read. What more do you expect from me, though, huh? _

_And I shan't disclaim. I won't. I categorically will NOT disclaim, because it's pointless, and stupid, and I don't need to because you all bloody know that I DON'T OWN IT._

_I feel dirty._

_-----------------------------------_

_And so it begins._

"So where are we off to, then?"

He shrugs and forces a smile. She's being too jolly, too spirited, and in truth it rather worries him that she hasn't given herself the time to grieve the departure of her best friend from her life, forever. She's being exactly like him, busy, bustling, animated, and it scares him. It actually scares him. But what scares him more is that he doesn't know how to fix it.

"Are you alright?"

Rose looks up at him from beside the tardis control panel, and for a moment she looks like she's going to say something, admit how she feels, that she's having problems adjusting to the idea that Mickey's gone forever, a constant in her life now permanently missing, never to return. He's always told her not to say never ever, but this time it probably is applicable.

She looks torn for the briefest of moments, stuck between casualness and vulnerability. He wishes he didn't know he'd choose the former.

"I'm fine. I'm always fine."

She smiles at him far too broadly and turns away, and both hearts sink so far he wonders if they'll meet his stomach. He's actually achieved what he thought was impossible. He's turned Rose Tyler, lovely, sunny, can-find-something-to-love-in-anything Rose Tyler into an emotionally reserved, despondent, morose version of himself.

Actually, when he thinks about it, he can't take all the credit. Mickey played one part or another. A big part, really. Perhaps bigger than his.

Deep breaths, just ask, just ask, just ask...

"Is this about M-"

"I'm going to my room."

She storms away, and he closes his eyes, hoping to himself that this isn't the beginning of the end.

_And so, finally, finally, regretfully, it begins._

--------------------------------

Her voice is quiet, resigned, regretful.

"Did you know?"

He shakes his head fervently, but she doesn't believe him, and just looks at him, dolefully, not sure why she asked the question when she won't accept any other answers than the one she already believes to be true.

The day's blustery, chilly, but not as cold as it might have been. She didn't call him here. She actually thought he might have given her more time than this, barely twelve hours since their conversation in the street, but nothing he does surprises her anymore. He was there when she got here-he'd just arrived, and she can't decide whether he's visiting for his own sake (she can't imagine he misses her mum that much, but he's strange and fickle enough that it wouldn't surprise her if he'd had a sudden change of heart), or if he knew she'd be there, knowing where she is like he always does. If she wasn't so used to it, she'd find it unnerving.

They're standing in front of Jackie's grave, together, looking at the inscription on the newly delivered stone for the first time, and Rose has brought flowers with her-cream roses that she spent someone else's money on, someone well meaning and horribly patronising. She should really have spent it on something productive, like her mum would have wanted her to, but it didn't feel right to spend a virtual stranger's money on food, or gas, or rent, or electricity. She's decided to live alone, cope, and not to need anyone, not when any help she's given will be hopelessly transient.

She lays the roses on the ground, on the still mockingly fresh pile of Earth, and then looks back up at the Doctor, feeling endlessly selfish, guilty, _alone_. She _has _to challenge him. She has nothing else to say.

"You must have had some idea."

He says nothing, then tilts his head to the side, seemingly stuck for words. She turns her gaze away, assuming his silence is a confirmation, or, at least, knowing the Doctor, an _it's complicated_.

"Alright, thanks for that."

Rose lifts her hand to her mouth and starts biting her fingernails, a feeble attempt at nonchalance that anyone could see through, knowing her inside out or otherwise. The Doctor fights the urge to run away, hating that this time had to come so soon, cursing the decision that the universe, or the Doctor that began the loop, or _whoever_ made to meet Rose so ridiculously soon after their street argument. He wouldn't have come here, he knows it's stupid, he has absolutely no reason for coming here other than the fact that he knew he had to because he already... had. And now he has to think of something to make Rose cry, then leave her again so she'll go into the church and cry out for the loss of her mother and her father and her best friend and her... someone special. He knows he's someone special to her. It makes him rather proud. He wishes he could be as proud of what he's about to do.

"Rose, do you remember anything about when I changed?"

She turns back to him, her eyebrows furrowed, suspicious. He takes a deep breath and continues, quietly, knowing the other him mustn't hear, and that he'll be hiding behind the big tree directly behind him (the current him) as they speak.

"There wasn't any singing."

Rose raises an eyebrow this time, a quiet little plaintive comment of _do you honestly think I care anymore?_

It's finally time to ramble.

"Well, there might have been, I wasn't in your head, and I wasn't really in the tardis's in the same way you were. Maybe she sang... I wouldn't put it past her. Maybe someone really did sing, and that sent the Daleks away, and we were all saved because the tardis sang so beautifully and so sadly and so honestly the Daleks were all destroyed by it. Who knows? Things aren't always what they look like."

Rose is completely silent, letting him speak.

"Or maybe they all left because of you, and you saved everything, and whilst you did it you killed me... at the same time. I died for you, Rosie. And I'd do it over and over again, as often as I could if I knew you'd be safe and happy and out of my way, because I just destroy everything, for everyone in my path, whether I want to or not. An oncoming storm doesn't know who it's raining on. I can't keep you safe. But I can keep you out of the line of fire if I think it will do you any good."

Rose crosses her arms, still trying to remain dispassionate, but blatantly worried at what will come next.

"Though that ship's sailed, hasn't it, Rose? We both know it. You wanted me safe, you always wanted me safe. Isn't it right, isn't it chivalrous, that I might want the same?"

He's never been this honest before. But it's not refreshing. It hurts.

"Do you remember this bit, Rose? The bit where you told me you saw everything?"

Rose shakes her head slowly, quiet, waiting for him to continue. And he will, as soon as he finds the words, as soon as he's sure she won't be able to see the tears that have sprung up to burn his eyes. But it's easier than he thought it would be, surprisingly enough. He supposes it's been on the tip of his tongue for so long it wouldn't be hard for it all to spill out.

"The... sun, and the moon, and the stars... yeah, Rose, they do hurt. They all hurt, all the time, and I _feel it_. _All the time_. Always have, always will, and I _hate_ it. And you saw just a little bit of that, just a speck of that... horror, that _beauty_, and it nearly killed you, it nearly burned you up, and _that_ would have killed me, especially after you saw that, after you understood. You needed me when I saved you, and I've never for a _second_ regretted saving you, not even for the tiniest little moment. So don't you _dare_ tell me I knew what was going to happen, Rose, not even if you've forgotten. And you _have_ forgotten, haven't you? Because you should know that I know it _all_. What should have happened, and what would have happened, and the _infinite _possibilities about what might, someday, happen."

He doesn't even consider letting her know what might happen for the two of them someday if he takes a chance.

"Because, you see, I _don't look_. Because looking's dangerous, anyone'll tell you that. I won't... watch anymore friends die. I won't bare the burden of having to know when you'll die, Rose, because that'll drive me even more mad than the fact that I _could_ know when I don't want to. So basically... in conclusion..." he nearly trails off, wondering if he sounds stupid, but decides not to care. "I did see it. But I see so much else all the time that it kind of got... lost in my head. I didn't think about it because I see so much. If I thought about everything, there wouldn't be enough hours in a day, even if you're a time lord."

The only thing the Doctor can hear is the snap of a twig from behind a tree a few metres from them, and Rose's shallow breathing, quick and irregular. He knows he's hit his mark. She's staring at him unblinkingly, her eyes glistening, almost awe-struck at the man in front of her and his attempt at a very confusing explanation. She feels almost perverted by how much she wants to kiss him.

The Doctor is still looking back at her, his shoulders hunched but his expression grave but the tiniest bit pleased, like he's had some kind of unwanted victory. She can't stop herself crying openly, but somehow manages to refrain from reaching for him in an attempt to make him see she understands and might even be able to help in some capacity.

She's motionless but for her body's sob induced shaking, and he can't watch, it hurts too much. He hates himself, he bloody hates himself for doing this. And he hates his other self, behind the tree, for being so stupid as to ever let her go in the first place. And he hates yet another self, a self he knows will arrive that night to catch a first glimpse at Jackie's grave, for being so naive, for being so happy. He's forgotten how to be happy by now. And he has to leave.

He looks her in the eye, forcing himself to be stone cold and unemotional, even when his hearts are burning at the treason of leaving her here.

"I have to go."

Rose finally looks away, towards the church. After a moment she nods, clearly making the decision that she won't start crying again until he's left. She can't afford to lose any more face, after all.

"Rose, please..."

He trails off and she looks back at him, her face full of attempted pride.

"What?"

"Call me, when you can. As _soon_ as you can. The offer still stands."

She shrugs and looks away again, and he sighs, knowing it's time to leave, that he's done his job in keeping time flowing. He hopes it will all be worth it in the end.

He trudges away, walking the few feet to the tardis across muddy leaves. Rose is still staring as he closes the door and dematerialises.

---------------------------------------

Her return really should be a happy thing, he muses, as she sets her bag down again on the grill-like floor of the tardis. She looks regretful, not perhaps that she's back, just at the way things turned out. He'd be the first to admit it's not exactly ideal.

"So, back where we started." Rose looks at him and forcibly smiles. She looks older, weaker, as if she's seen too much and not quite been able to forget it. "Did you miss me?"

The Doctor doesn't answer, just smiling, incapable of admitting that he did miss her, that he still misses her, even when she's standing right in front of him. They've lost a lot in six months. He wishes they really were "back where they started", where they _really _started, years ago. That would be better than this polite, jovial lying.

It was inevitable really, he supposes, that she came back. He hasn't really been living in the past six or so months, and by the look and sound of it, she hasn't really either. They've both just been going through the motions, going on for the sake of it. He never thought he'd be all that affected by her absence. But it turns out he can't actually live without her, when it comes down to it. He's disappointed in himself for being so weak.

"I'll, er... just put my bag away. In my... room," she stutters, and he gives her the smiling nod usually reserved for friendly strangers he chooses not to connect to. He feels like kicking himself as she walks towards her room, her head bowed.

"Rose..."

She turns back to face him, still clutching her bag, and he sees something like frustration in her eyes, as if she's trying to be polite but isn't sure how much longer she can manage it. It's an odd expression, especially with the pained smile stretched across her face.

He swallows his pride, hoping the words will come.

"Are you alright?"

Rose's smile, fake as it may be, fades at that. She's torn again between what her rules dictate she should say (or rather, not say) and what would be the better, healthier thing to tell him, to admit.

She can't do it.

"I'm fine, I'm always..."

"Stop."

She blinks in surprise at the interruption. He's solemn and forceful, but not entirely grim, which makes a nice change.

"This shouldn't be what you're here for. So not exactly back where we started, alright, Rose?"

She says nothing, thinking she might know where this is leading. She isn't sure, but she thinks the tardis is humming its approval. He is sure, and it is.

"We aren't going to fall back into this, alright? I don't want that. If we're going to finally do it, we have to do it right."

She lays the bag down at her feet, and looks at him, eyebrows raised.

"Then how's it going to be?"

He shrugs, and in his head he can mentally hear the tardis moan, egging him on to get what they both want. And it's close. It's so close... that thrumming, the urgency of what could be, so close he could touch it, like he's a drug addict who's been fighting for years and might at long last be provided with what he craves.

She's still questioning him, eyes huge and seductive.

"How do you _want_ it to be?"

She _has_ to already know, she's surely just testing him, she knows how much he wants what he shouldn't have.

_Romana, and Ace..._

What he really, really, really shouldn't even consider having, under any circumstances. For all the reasons he shouldn't ever have let himself forget.

"Doctor?"

_...and Tegan, and Sarah-Jane..._

Will she just be another one to add to the list, another lost _friend_? Not her, never her. He always promised her he wouldn't let her just become a fading memory, another absent companion. She's more than that, isn't she? She's surely worth much more than that. She _means_ more than that, she's always been dangerously much more than a companion, more than a friend.

"Oi, Doctor!"

_...and Grace... _"Sorry?"

"You were miles away."

He shouldn't have been so stupid as to let her be more than a friend. But he can't take her home, she's got no-one, she's not got a job, she's got no hope, she needs him, he's all she's got-how can it be that a woman's life can fit entirely inside the confines of his stupid blue box?

"Yeah."

"Doctor!"

_...they're gone, they're all gone. Rose Tyler's next, and maybe, Doctor, last... You've always known it... Can you feel that? Can you see it coming? All you have to do is look inside your head, into the burning, and you'll see..._

"No!"

"What?"

His eyes flicker onto her face, her beautiful, trusting, innocent face. She's much too young to have eyes like that. _Oh, God, what have I done?_

"What is it? You're scaring me!"

It's too much. He drops to the floor, balancing his elbows onto his knees, and sinks his head into his hands. He doesn't hate himself for what he's done, or what he is. That's just the way things are. And there's no way he could _ever_ hate her. He just feels sorry for himself, he supposes. Sorry for what the universe has done.

Rose is crouching beside him, her body close to his. Her fingers are soft, trembling against his wrists as she slowly, gently, shakily lifts his hands from his face, terrified at what she might find there, what he might be hiding, or thinking, or what he might have made the decision to do. But when he finally looks up he's almost smiling. She breathes a breath of relief, and he can't stop himself from apologising.

"Sorry."

"For almost giving me a heart attack? You should be!"

He shakes his head, looking back down at his knees. She's still holding his hands in hers, warm and comforting, all the earlier anger and frustration gone, replaced with the concern he can only assume she learnt from her mum, her poor mum who's gone and left her behind. She's so brave, so incredibly brave and just generally _incredible_, kind enough, _sweet_ enough to be a source of comfort when it should so obviously be the other way round. There are tears heating his eyes at how horrible this is when she's being so _lovely_.

"Not for that. I _am _sorry about that, but that's not what I'm trying to apologise for-" he breaks off, wondering how to do this, now that it is, finally, after so long, the right time to do something so inherently wrong.

"Doctor?"

"Right. That's me. That's going to be me for a very, very, very long time. And..."

Time to tear it right open.

"...I don't really do relationships with people. So you and me _can't be_. Ever. It's beating me up, but that's the truth. You and me are never going to be together that way, Rose. No matter how much we want it. So no more euphemisms, no more pretending it's alright, no more flirting, no more forever when it's not. Because it hurts."

How is it that absolutely everything makes him cry these days? But at least he's not alone in it.

"Can you do that for me?"

She leans forward and buries her face in his neck, and even though she's only twenty, it's like she's seen it all. In a way, she has. She's done more than most people do in a lifetime. But it's not a good thing.

He barely registers the nod, her warm hair rustling just the tiniest little bit, tears of shame and regret and, most likely, fear. He's talking about death. It's just like he said, she'll _wither and die_. And maybe when she does she'll have to face the next bit. And even Rose, who's tried as hard as she can to fall into the Doctor's ideas of religion, knows her chances aren't good by most people's standards in the life after death stakes. _Murderers are bad people, what if murderers can't redeem, what will happen to her if murderers die and rot in the ground or go to hell, or come back as the lowest form of life to live in pain or are just forgotten about by the universe, by the people who promise to always remember them..._

"Please don't forget me..."

She falls into his embrace, shaking, crying, desperate, and he rocks her back and forth, rubbing her back, not telling her to shush, knowing it's all his fault, realising there's no way back. When's she's gone he won't forget, won't ever forget, not after this.

"Never, never, _never..._"

----------------------------------------------

_SORRY! SORRY! I'm so unbelievably sorry! Is this T appropriate?_

_Read the epilogue? Then review? Okay?_


	7. Epilogue

_Well, that's it. Here you go, the end. Feel free to ignore the massively long, 434 word, irrelevant author's note at the end. And there are only 1130 of actual story. Shocking. _

_And I still don't own (although it's my eighteenth soon and my dad says I can have something special, so y'know, fingers crossed)._

-----------------------------------------------------

They're back at the grave. _One last time_, he tells himself. _Never again_.

It's not so cold anymore. The sun's come out from behind the perpetual clouds of winter. The grass is springing up under their feet, littered with daisies and buttercups and crocuses and all other kinds of childish springtime delights. The proverbial birds are singing. And it's over. It's finally, finally over.

They don't have to run from anyone any more. Any chance of the reapers, who never really came, once they think about it, has passed, and it's not as if the police will ever catch two time-travelling murderers. It's too strange to be true, and even if they handed themselves in they'd probably just be sent to the nut-house.

Jimmy's grave is in a different cemetery, miles away. She checked with his mum, under the pretence she wanted to visit, to say her last goodbye. She almost felt guilty when the kindly woman had believed her-ironic, when she considers what she's done.

Rose had never planned to visit the grave, and she's sure she never will-there's no need to say goodbye to Jimmy. He'll be with her every second for the rest of her life, like a ghost, a mark that won't come off her skin, no matter how she tries to purge herself, tries to redeem. Her life, her very existence, her chance at anything she might once have deserved has been scarred by it, by such a useless action that barely made sense at the time. Her life now revolves around his death, her mum's death, her father's death, and, as distant as it may be, her own as well. The Doctor won't forget his impending loss, won't ever let his guard down enough to allow himself to feel how he so easily could, and it will always be a reminder of what will eventually happen to her. She can't leave him, won't leave him, not ever, not when she has nowhere to go and nothing left outside his blue box. She will never be loved again, at least not by anyone who'll let himself show it. She'll never be as happy as she could be, and all that's left, in a way, is her waiting to die under the close watch of someone who so fully expects it every second that neither of them will ever be able to live, not like they used to. _I don't want to die alone_, she thinks, and can't stop a tear track its way slowly down her cheek.

She takes his hand, and even though he knows it won't help, he squeezes hers. They have exactly the same look on their faces, in their eyes, the same fear plastered across their features. She will die. He will live. And he'll be alone. And eventually all this will be swallowed up, smothered until it's nothing but a story told by a man so impossibly old he's practically a paradox himself. She's so terrified of dying she feels almost paralysed by it. And it's only his natural diffidence and reserve that stops him from falling apart at the thought of carrying on living as long as he has to if he'll always be alone.

They're together, again, as friends, as nothing more, as nothing less, than best friends. It's enough, and it's not. And it's too much. And it's not. They can't ever talk about how they feel, or how wrong this is, because it will break whatever is there. They feel for each other so much now that it's stopped being just a feeling, an emotion. It's an experience, for sure. It's a belief. An act. An impression.

She wants to grow old next to him and to have him grow old with her. To have his children. To be so close she can count the grey hairs, and tell him everything, and to be able to make herself vulnerable, and for that to be okay, because he's going through what she's going through and won't use anything she tells him against her. She wants to stop running.

He wants her to stop ageing, to be young and glorious and alive as long as he is, longer. He doesn't want either of them to ever have to sleep again. He wants to be able to tell her anything, and to know the secrets will always be shared, the problems halved, and that he'll never have to go back to his blue box alone, after having left her body lain in earth, or burned, or just lost, gone forever. He wants to listen to her laugh every day, and feel her arms around his neck, and her hands in his hair, to wake up with her forever more, and to see her smile whenever he wants to. He wants to carry on running, and he wants to run with her, and for it not to be running away, not again. He doesn't want to have to spend every moment praying to the Gods he never believed in for divine intervention he's sure doesn't exist.

They won't grow old together, and he'll never wake up next to her, and she won't count his grey hairs, or share secrets, although that doesn't really matter. She only has one now, and it's not really a secret anyway. But she still can't ever let the words leave her mouth.

They're both naive. They both know it will hurt, whatever happens. But they won't know the agony of it until it comes to pass. That will kick in much too soon. He can already see it, he sees it all the time, inside his head. She saw it once too, so she might try to understand, but it's just like he told her, it drives him mad. And eventually it will break him, beyond repair. Leading up to it there'll be scattered pieces of shattered hearts and battered wishes lain aside as they pass through the all too fleeting years, but those are just the casualties from their silent, unwanted war. Their lives are ruined. That will teach them for falling in love.

But for now, they'll just try to resist. Because even when she doesn't make it, when her body finally succumbs from what sadly won't be the old age they crave it to be, when he finally does have to accept the horror, the absolute horror and devastation that will so obviously accompany her death, at least he won't have made himself entirely vulnerable, he will (he prays) have stopped it hurting quite as much as it might have done. He'll thank himself eventually, he knows he will. Or, at least, he hopes he will. It's all just a matter of trying to keep his reticence.

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_A/N: (Bawls into a pillow) Sorry. I had to do it, I'd always planned on doing it, from the very first day that I sat down, listening to "I Want None of This" by Radiohead, and decided to take a break from writing the great British novel to write something shorter and less depressing (seriously, this is an episode of Balamory in comparison). _

_**But I promise I won't do it again.**_

_I really, really won't. It bums me out too. I just wondered when the last time was anyone actually kept to the premise of "she's going to die, loving her would be like loving someone with a terminal illness". Do you hate me? I'm fully expecting hate. Or, um... flames? You might be able to tell I'm a bit nervous about posting this..._

_**Coming soon malarkey: **__Since I wrote my profile and yodelled on in a semi-jokey fashion about first world war soldiers I've been dying to write a thing about a tommy describing his experiences of the front, so Tim from HN/FoB was an obvious idea. I've also got plans for some kind of reunion story (a happy one, in about a million parts), but most likely of a weirder kind than you normally see posted here. Or maybe I'll go straight down the line and surprise everyone by being normal and clichéd. Who knows? But be sure it will be littered with way too many adjectives and plenty of thought tracking in italics._

_But anyway, most likely the next thing I'll post will be "__**Reticence-Chronologically!**__" or "__**Chronological Reticence**__" or something to that effect, just to prove that there aren't any plot holes and to get the damned thing straight in __**my**__ head, so do tell me if this is a T or an M. I might add the "deleted scenes" into that too-there's the scene when Rose is in the loo of the caff (beautiful word) listening to the people talking about a dead East London Jackie; the scene where they replace the people talking in the bathroom with a recording and two more scenes: one with the Doctor and Sarah Jane, and one with Rose and Sarah Jane, book-ending the scene in the corridor, so maybe I could just slide them in for added back story... not that there's not enough of that in my __**FIRST EVER STORY**__. Aren't you proud?_

_Actually, probably not. Oh, what does it matter anyway? You probably all hate me so much by now that you're either not reading this or reading it to look for things to avoid..._


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